"Be not discouraged either before obstacles, or before ill-will. Wait patiently. The sacred hour will sound for you and all the ways will be made smooth."

(_Charge of Mgr. de Nancy_).

Drawing near to the window, Suzanne distinguished in front of her, behindthe open-work palisade, a dark motionless figure.

She immediately recognized the Cure.

Alarmed and trembling, she hastily drew back; but she heard a gentle cough,as if someone was calling and was afraid of being surprised.

"What is happening?" she said to herself, "what is he doing there?"

She covered herself hurriedly with a dressing-gown and drew near thecasement again. Marcel, with his hat in his hand, bowed to her, andappeared to invite her by a sign to come down.

Again she drew back. She knew not what to think or what to do. Shehesitated to comply with the priest's desire, and, on the other hand, shewas afraid lest Marianne, or some neighbour, should happen to wake andcatch the Cure of the village making signs, at that unseasonable hour,before her door, during her father's absence. God only knew what a scandalthere would be then! and as tongues would wag, her father perhaps mighthear of it, and what explanation could she give? already they werebeginning to chatter about her absence from the services and their meetingson the road.

She was seized with terror and ran to put out the lamp, calculating thatthe Cure would withdraw.

But the Cure of Althausen had not undertaken this adventurous expedition toabandon it at the moment when he was attaining his object. Excited by thealcohol, by the dishabille of the charming young girl, and by all that hehad just caught a sight of, emboldened by the night and the solitary place,he was waiting with impatience.

Therefore when Suzanne, trembling all over, drew near a second time to seeif he was gone, he was at the same place, still bowing to her and callingher by signs. He was not tired, and with perfectly clerical obstinacy,multiplied his salutes and his signs.

She said to herself that there was doubtless some important motive for himto have decided, in spite of dangers and the proprieties, to require aninterview with her in the middle of the night "Good God! could somemisfortune have happened to my father?" The thought oppressed her mind. Shehesitated no longer, put on a light petticoat, threw a shawl over hershoulders, and went downstairs.

LXXI.

THE BREACH.

"Who art thou, who knockest so loudly. Art thou Great Love, to whom all must yield, for whom heroes sacrificed (more than life) their very heart ... Ah, if thou art he, let the door be opened wide."

MICHELET (_L'Amour_).

She saw at once that he was all in a fever.

--What has happened? she said. You have seen my father?

--Nothing has happened, Mademoiselle; as to your father, I saw him thismorning getting into a carriage: I believe that he is well.

--But what is it then? what is it? do not hide anything from me.

--I am hiding nothing from you, Mademoiselle, nothing grievous hashappened. Be comforted. I was passing by in my walk, I saw the light, Iobserved you, your window was partly open. I stopped and said to myself:Perhaps I can make a sign to Mademoiselle Durand that I am going away.

--Oh, Heavens, I am trembling all over.... What! you are going away? Andwhere? And when?

--To-morrow morning, Mademoiselle, after Mass.

--For ever?

--Perhaps.

--You are leaving Althausen so, without saying good-bye to yourparishioners, to your friends!

--I have no friends, Mademoiselle, I have only you, who are willing to hearme some ... friendship; only you, who have sometimes thought of the poorsolitary at the parsonage, therefore I thank you for it from the bottom ofmy heart, and I wanted to bid you ... farewell.

--But why this sudden and unexpected departure?

--A more important cure is offered me, Mademoiselle, and I have, likeothers, a little grain of ambition.

--Oh, I understand, Monsieur, and let me congratulate you on this change inyour fortune. Is it far?

--Nancy, Mademoiselle.

--Nancy! I am glad of it on your account. You will have distractions therewhich you have not here. I almost envy you.

--Do not envy me, Mademoiselle, for I carry away death in my soul. I amsorrowful as Christ at Golgotha. I spoke to you of ambition. It is false, Ihave no ambition. Other motives than miserable calculations compel me todepart.

--Motives ... serious?

--You will understand them, Mademoiselle, for I must confess it to you, andthat I should not do if I was to remain in this parish. But from the day Isaw you, I have felt myself drawn towards you by an invincible sympathy.Oh, be not disturbed. Let not my words offend you; it is the fondness whichI should have felt for a dearly-loved sister, if God had given me one.Believe it truly, Mademoiselle, the spotless calyx of the lily, the emblemof purity, is not more chaste than my thoughts when they fly towards you,for when I think of you, I think of the queen of angels; that is why Iwished to see you again and bid you farewell.

--I thank you, sir.

--I wished to say to you: Farewell! I go away, but tell me, not if I mayask to see you sometimes again--I dare not ask so great a favour--but if Ishall have the right to mingle my memory with yours, my thought with yourthought; tell me if you wish me to remain your friend though far away. Weleave one another, we separate, but is that a reason why all should end?May we not write, give one another advice, follow one another from afar onthe arduous road of life?

It is so sweet, when we are alone, when the heart is sad, when the heavenis dark and the tears come slowly to the eyes, to dream that away there, ina little corner behind the horizon, there is a sister-soul to our soul,which perhaps, at that very moment, leaps towards us also and murmursacross space: "Friend, I think of you." We feel less abandoned and lessalone.

--Yes, that is true, I understand you.

--It is the communion of souls, dear Suzanne, sweeter than all thepleasures of the body, because it is holy and pure, it is the Ark of theCovenant, the gate of Heaven. Tell me, will you? Are you willing that weshould follow one another thus in life? You do not answer....

--Listen, sir, listen, there is someone in the road.

--There are footsteps, said Marcel, after he had listened. Yes, there arefootsteps. Someone comes. I must not be seen here.... Farewell,Mademoiselle, farewell.

--Do not go away. That would be the means of compromising us both, for theymust have heard our voices, and your departure would attract suspicions.

--What shall I do? I cannot remain here.

--They cannot have seen us yet: Come in. Under this arbour you will be safefrom any gaze.

--What! said Marcel, you wish...?

--I beseech you, come. This village is full of evil-minded people. It ismore prudent for both of us.

She turned the key, and Marcel glided like a shadow through the half-opengate, quickly crossed the borders, and threw himself under the arbour.

Suzanne closed the gate again and rejoined him.

LXXII.

THE ASSAULT.

"Be mine, be my sister, for I am all thine, And well I deserve thee, for long have I loved."

A. DE VIGNY (_Eloa_).

They were standing up under the dark arbour. One close to the other,excited, panting: they could scarce get their breath again. Does theirheart beat so hard because there is someone in the path? Silence!

The cricket, just by their side, sends forth from under the grass his softmonotonous cry, and down there in the neighbouring ditch the toad lifts hisharsh voice. Silence!

A noise in the road, faint at first as the murmur of the wind, increases.It comes near. It is the cautious hesitating step of someone listening. Itcomes nearer and stops. Silence! The philosopher cricket continues hissong, the amorous toad his poem.

Behind the branches of honeysuckle they watch attentively, and can seewithout being seen. A shadow passes slowly by, with its head turned towardsthe dark arbour. Suzanne made a movement of surprise;--Your servant, shesaid.

--Silence, murmured Marcel; and he seizes a hand which he keeps within hisown.

Veronica slowly walked on.

When she reached the gate, she pushed it as if to assure herself if it wasopen.

--Well, there is an impertinence, said Suzanne. Who can have made hersuspect that you were here?

Marcel, for reply, pressed the hand which he was holding.

Finding the gate closed, the servant continued her road, then all at oncereturned, stopped for a few seconds facing the arbour, and at lengthdisappeared behind the chestnut-trees.

They followed the sound of her footsteps, which was soon lost in thesilence, and found themselves alone, hearing nothing but the beatings oftheir own heart.

--Let us remain, said Suzanne in a low voice, we must not go out yet.Really, that is the most impertinent creature I have ever seen. By whatright does she spy on you thus?

--Dear child, do you not know that these old servants are on the track ofevery scandal, jealous of all beauty and all virtue. She will have noticedour frequent interviews, and has imagined a world of iniquities.Nevertheless, I bless her, yes, I bless her, since I owe to her the joy offinding myself in this tete-a-tete with you. See, dear child, how strangeis destiny, which is none other but the hand of God--for we must be blindnot to recognize in all these things the finger of divine Providence--it isprecisely the efforts made to put an obstacle between us, to prevent us, mefrom fulfilling my duties of a pastor, you those of a Christian, which havebeen the cause of our sweet intimacy. Your father forbids you to assist atthe Holy Sacrifice, and you come to me to ask for counsel. This servantpursues us with her envious hate, and obliges us to take refuge like guiltylovers beneath this dark arbour. Almighty God, thanks, thanks. But what astrange situation! If anyone were to surprise us, the whole world wouldaccuse us, and yet what is surer than our conscience? You see plainly, dearchild, that we cannot separate thus, and that, whatever happens, we mustnot remain strangers to one another.

Suzanne did not answer, and he, emboldened by this silence, pressed betweenhis the hand which she abandoned to him.

--I was so much accustomed to see you in our church that, when you ceasedto come there, it seemed to me that everything was in mourning. You werethe most charming and the chastest ornament of it. When I went up into thepulpit, it was for you that I preached, and when I turned towards my flockto bless them, it was you alone, sweet lamb, that I blessed in the name ofthe Father. You understand now, why I shall go away enveloped in sorrow.

--But, sir, I do not deserve the honour which you do me, and I am unworthyto occupy your thoughts in this way.

--Do not say that, for since I have seen you, you have become, without myknowing how, the joy of my life, the source from which I draw my sweetestand most holy pleasures. With the memory of you, I lull myself in theInfinite. I see Heaven and the angels, I dream of Seraphims who resembleyou, who bear me on their diaphanous wings into the abode where all is joyand love ... heavenly love, dear Suzanne, love like that of the angels forthe Virgin, the mother, eternally pure, of our sweet Saviour. You see, youhave no reasons to be offended with my dreams. You are not offended atthem, are you?

--Why should I be offended at them, said Suzanne softly. Can one beoffended with dreams?

--You remember that night, when, alone as we are now, I allowed myself in amoment of pious transport, to bear to my lips your lovely hand. I haveoften blushed at it.... I have blushed at it, because I thought that youmight have mistaken that respectful kiss. I kissed it as I should havekissed the hem of a queen's robe, if that queen had been a saint, as Ishould have kissed the feet of the Virgin, as Magdalena kissed those ofChrist, as I kiss it at this moment, dear, dear Suzanne.

And his lips rested on that little warm, quivering, feverish hand, and theycould no more be separated from it.

And, when at length he withdrew his mouth from it, he found that Suzannewas so near to him that he heard the beatings of her heart.

--Leave you, oh, never; you shall be my companion in life as you are mybetrothed before the Eternal. Leave you, dear Suzanne, sweet mystic rose,chosen vessel. See, there is something stronger than all the laws and allthe proprieties; it is a look from you. Why do you repulse me? I speak toyou as to the Virgin, and I kiss your knees. Chaste betrothed of theLevite, let me espouse you before God.

She struggled with all her might, excited and maddened. But what can thedove do in the talons of the hawk! Pressed to his breast by his vigorousarms, it was in vain that she asked for pity. Hell might have opened, erehe would have dropped his prey.

The struggle lasted several minutes, passionate, silent, ardent. Woman isweak. Soon nothing was heard ... a sob ... and all died away in the denseshade.

The startled cricket was silent, and it alone might have counted the sighs,while in the neighbouring ditch the toad unwearied continued its love-song.

LXXIII.

AUDACES FORTUNA JUVAT.

"If you have done wrong, rebuke yourself sharply: If you have done well, have satisfaction."

SAINT FRANCOIS DE SALLES (_Traite de l'Amour Divin_).

Marcel reached the parsonage without hindrance. Veronica had not yetreturned. He congratulated himself on that, and went up the stair-casewhich led to his room with the light step of a happy man, locked his door,and began to laugh like a madman.

Everything was safe; only there was down there in a corner of the village,an honour lost.

--Is it really you, Marcel, is it really you, he said, who have just playedso great a game, and won the trick?

And he laughed, and he rubbed his hands, and he would willingly have danceda wild saraband, if he had not been afraid of making a noise.

He listened in the next room where his uncle was in bed, and heard his loudbreathing.

--And the hag who is watching still beneath the limes! And the father whois at Vic, and who, I doubt not, is snoring too. Come, all goes well! allgoes well!

But he stopped, ashamed of himself.

--Decidedly, he said to himself, I have become in a few days utterly bad. Idid not believe that it was possible to make such rapid progress in evil.But nonsense. Is it evil? Has not God made wine to be drunk, flowers to beplucked, and women to be loved? As to that weather-beaten old soldier, whyshould I feel any pity on his account? He has been insolent, he hasdetested me without my ever having done anything to him; I have loved hisdaughter, his daughter has loved me, we are quits. I do not see why Ishould distress myself about an adventure which would make so many peoplehappy, and for which all my brethren would have very quickly sold thesacred Host and the holy Pyx besides. Ah, my dear uncle, good fatherRidoux, sleep, sleep in peace. How greatly am I your debtor for what youhave done for me, unwittingly and in spite of yourself; for, have you not,by urging me to drink more than is my custom, in order to draw my secretfrom me, given me the courage to undertake what I should never have daredto dream of? _Audaces fortuna juvat_. Oh, Providence! Providence! She ismine, the girl with the dark eyes is mine!

He heard a slight noise in the corridor.

--Good never comes alone, he continued, it always has evil for an escort.Behind the sweet form of the angel, the grinning face of Satan. He iscoming upstairs and knocks at the door.

He had not lighted his lamp again, and he carefully refrained fromanswering. He heard Veronica, trying to open the door and calling him in alow voice. But he pretended to be deaf, and quietly got into bed, all thewhile cursing his accomplice, and thinking of the clumsy trap into which hehad fallen like a fool, and of that thick and filthy spider's web where,like an unwary and silly fly, he had daubed his wings.

What a difference between the chaste resistance of Suzanne, her tears andher defeat, and the hideous advances of that old courtesan of the sacristy!

In place of that unclean creature, accomplished in crime, oozing hypocrisyfrom every pore, he had an adorable, loving, charming mistress, such as hehad never dared to dream of. And all this alteration in a few hours!because he had faced it out, because, excited by intoxication, he had takenhis courage in both hands, and because he had dared.

Oh, why had he not dared ere this? He would not be under the infamous yokeof his servant. And how many priests, he said to himself, for want of alittle boldness, are devoted to a degrading concubinage with faded oldspinsters!

He was not without uneasiness. How could he see Suzanne again, situated ashe was between the jealous watching of the servant and the vigilance of thefather? And above all, how could he discard his uncle's entreaties, andrefuse an unexpected promotion, without arousing suspicion in highquarters? For, more than ever, he wished to remain at Althausen and keepthe treasure which had just caused him so much anxiety. Yes, he saw themaccumulating on his head, swooping from all parts and under all aspects:Veronica, Durand, Ridoux, the Bishop, the gossips, scandal, dishonour.

But, after all, what did it matter to him? The essential is that he was inpossession of Suzanne, that Suzanne was his, that he had the most charmingof mistresses, and he was indifferent to all the rest.

To see her again readily and without danger, to contrive other interviews,and above all to act prudently, was what he must think of. The chief stepwas taken, the rest would come of its own accord.

With Suzanne's consent all obstacles could be smoothed away, and clever ishe who succeeds in barring the way to two lovers who are determined to seeone another again.

The old counsellor Lamblin, who in his capacity of magistrate was aware ofthat, said long ago:

"To safely guard a certain fleece, In vain is all the watchman's care; 'Tis labour lost, if Beauty chance To feel a strange sensation there."

It was on this indeed that Marcel calculated; and, smiling, he slept thesleep of the just and dreamed the most rosy dreams.

LXXIV.

BEFORE MASS.

"You think that we ought not to break in two this puppet which is called Public Opinion, and sit upon it."

EUG. VERMEESCH (_L'Infamie humaine_).

A loud and well-known voice roused him unpleasantly from his dreams.

--Well, well, lazy-bones, still in bed when the sun is risen! You are notthinking then of going away? You go to bed the first, and you get up thelast. I, a poor old invalid, am giving you an example of activity. Ah,young people! young people! you are not equal to us. Come, come you can rubyour eyes to-morrow. Get up! Get up!

--How early you are, my dear uncle; my Mass has not yet rang.

--Have you no preparations to make for departure?

--For departure. Is it for to-day then?

--Do you wish to put it off to the Greek Kalends?

--To-day! repeated Marcel. I did not think really that it was so soon.

He dressed with the prudent delays of a man who says to himself: Let ussee, let us consider carefully what we must do.

--It is with fine words that we do fine things, and one of them is, itappears, to unmoor you from this place.

--The fact is, replied Marcel, that I have reflected to-night; and, afterwell considering everything, I am perfectly well off, and have no desire togo away to be worse off elsewhere.

--Hey! what do you say?

--My parish, humble as it is, is not so bad as you think. The people aresimple, kind and affable. I love peace and tranquillity, and I tell you,between ourselves, that to be Cure in a large town has no attractions forme.

--What stuff are you telling me now?

--Your town Cures are full of meanness and intrigues. The little I haveseen of them has disgusted me for ever. They spy one upon another. It iswho shall prejudice a fellow-priest in order to supplant him, or play thezealot in Monseigneur's presence. When I was the Bishop's secretary, hardlya day passed without my being witness to some shameful piece of talebearing. You must weigh all your words, cover your looks and have a careeven of your gestures. The slightest imprudence is immediately commentedon, exaggerated, embellished and retailed at head-quarters. The VicarGeneral is the spy in general.

Marcel uttered the truth.

The position of the priest is a difficult one; he is surrounded with themalevolence of enemies. But the priest's chief enemy, is the priest. As abody, they march together, close, compact, disciplined, defending theirrights and the honour of the flag, resenting individually the insultsoffered to all, and all rejoicing at the success of each. As individuals,they spy on one another, are jealous of one another, fight, accuse andjudge one another; and they do all this hypocritically and by occult ways.These hatreds and intrigues do not go outside the sanctuary domains. It isa strange world which stirs within our world, a society within a society, astate within the State. It is the behind-the-scenes of the temple, and itstretches from the sacristy to the parsonage, from the parsonage to thePalace. The profane world suspects nothing; it passes unconcernedly bywithout dreaming that tempests are rumbling by its side. But, like therevolutions raised by the eunuchs of the Seraglio, the intrigues of thesacristy have been known to change the face of nations.

The priest is the spy upon the priest.

Misfortune to the cassock which unbuttons itself before another cassock.The old priests are aware of this, and when they are among themselves, theydraw the folds of their black robe close, carefully hiding the leasttell-tale opening. But the young ones, simple and unreserved, often letthemselves be taken. They sound them and turn them up, and soon know whatthey have underneath. In order to please Monseigneur and to deserve thegood graces of the Palace, there are few priests who resist the temptationto sell their brother-priest, and are not ready to deny Jesus like Peterthe good apostle, the first and the model of the Roman pontiffs, threetimes before cock-crow, that is to say before Monseigneur gets up.

--No, that will not do for me, added Marcel; if I am poor here, at least Iam free.

--Pshaw! You did not raise all those objections to me yesterday.

--I have reflected, my dear uncle, as I have had the honour of telling you.

--Your reflections are fine. Well, whether you have reflected or not, isall the same to me. I have taken it into my head that you should go, andyou shall go. I will make you happy in spite of yourself, for I havereflected also, and more than ever I said to myself that you most go. Doyou want me to enumerate the reasons?

--The same as yesterday I have no doubt.

--No, there is one more, and that is worth all the rest.

--I know what you are going to say to me, but I have my answer all ready.Speak.

--What! at your age! in your position! Are you not ashamed to fall intoerrors which would scarcely be pardonable in a seminarist? Ah! you want thedots on the i's, well I am going to place them.

--Place them, uncle, place them.

--Had you not enough girls then in the village without going to lay a claimon the one yonder? On a well-educated young lady, whose fall will cause ascandal, the daughter of an enemy, of a Voltairian, almost a radical, agaol-bird in fine who will be happy to seize the occasion to raise aterrible outcry, and to proclaim your conduct to the four quarters of thehorizon. You see I know all.

--And who has informed you so correctly?

--I know all, I tell you. You can therefore keep your temper. Will you actlike the Cure of Larriques?

--What is there in common between the Cure of Larriques and me?

--You ought to humble yourself before God. If you wanted a young girl, ifyour immoderate appetites were not satisfied with what you had under yournose, is there no cautious person in the village who would have been proudand happy to be of service to you, and whom you could have married to someclodhopper or to some Chrysostom ready for the opportunity; whilst thatone, whom will you give her to? There will be an uproar, I tell you, andthat will be abomination.

--Really, uncle, said Marcel pale with anger, if anyone heard us, wouldthey believe that they were listening to the conversation of twoecclesiastics? you talk of these shameful things as if you were talking ofthe Gospel. In fact, I do not know which to be the more astonished at, thefreedom of your talk or the sad opinion which you have of me. But I seewhence all this emanates. Do you take me then for a bad priest?

--What is that? Do you take me for a simpleton? for one of Moliere'suncles?... Enough of playing a farce. You do not take me in, my goodfellow. I told you yesterday that you were cleverer than I; you did not seethen that I was joking? Your mask is still too transparent. One sees thetears behind the grinning face. No tragic aim. Come down from this stage onwhich you strut in such a ridiculous manner, and let us talk seriously likeplain citizens.

--Or bad priests!

--Be silent. The bad priests, that is to say the clumsy priests, which isall the same, are in your cassock; and the clumsy ones are those who allowthemselves to be caught. You have been caught, my son; and caught by whom?by your cook. Ha! Ha!

--Are you not ashamed to listen to the tale-bearing and calumny of thathorrible woman?

--Horrible! Be quiet, you are blind. It is your conduct which is horrible.To concoct such intrigues!

--I concoct no intrigue. And when that does occur; when my feelings ofrespect, of esteem, of friendship for a young person endowed with virtuesand graces, change into a sweeter feeling: at all events, if my positioncompels me to conceal my inclinations from the world, I shall have no needto blush for them when face to face with myself, that is to say: with mydignity as a man. While your allusions, your instigation to certainintimacies, which in order to be more closely hidden are only the moreabominable and degrading, inspire me only with disgust.

--Oh, Holy Spirit, enlighten him. He is wandering, he is a triple fool.When I suspected, when I discovered, when I saw that you were entering on aperilous path, I gave you yesterday the advice which a priest of my age hasthe right to give to one of yours, especially when he is, as I am,regardful of his future.

--I am as regardful of it as you.

--Cease your idle words. Have you decided to go?

--No, uncle, I am well off here, and I stay here.

--Well off! Mouldy in your vices and obscurity. Wallowing, like Job, onyour dung-heap. Roll yourself in your filth: for my part I know what courseremains for me to take.

--You will do what you think proper.

--I am sure of it. But you, instead of having the excellent cure which wasdestined for you, you shall have one lower still than this where you canwallow at your ease in your idleness, your nothingness and your vices, for,I swear to you by my blessed patron, that if I go away without you, youshall not remain here for forty-eight hours. I will have you recalled bythe Bishop. You laugh. You know me all the same; you know when I say _yes_it is _yes_. A word is enough for Monseigneur, you know. _Magister dixit_.

Marcel knew the character of the old Cure well enough to know that he wascapable of keeping his word. Fearing to irritate him more by his obstinacy,he thought it better to appear to yield.

--It is time for Mass, he said. We will talk about that again.

--Go, my son, and pray to the Holy Spirit.

LXXV.

DURING MASS.

"I have my rights of love and portion of the sun; Let us together flee ..."

A. DE VIGNY (_La Prison_).

It will easily be credited that Marcel's thoughts had little in common withthe Holy Eucharist. He would have been a very ungrateful lover, if hiswhole soul had not flown towards Suzanne. This was then his chiefpreoccupation, while he murmured the long _Credo_, partook of Christ, andrecited his prayers.

What should he decide? that was his second. Should he go away? That meantfortune, reconciliation with the Bishop, putting his foot in the stirrup ofhonours. Young, intelligent, learned, what was there to stop him?

But that meant separation from Suzanne: saying farewell to all those divinedelights which he had just tasted. He had hardly time to moisten hisparched lips in the cup, before the cup was shattered. He was truly inlove, for he should have said to himself: "There are other cups." But forhim there was but one. Uncle Ridoux, the Bishop and greatness might go tothe devil. The promised cure and the episcopal mitre might go to the deviltoo. Did he not possess the most precious of treasures, the most enviableblessing, the supplement and complement of everything, the ambition ofevery young man, the desire of every old man, of every man who has a heart:a young, lovely, modest, loving, intelligent and adored mistress. But whatmight not be the result of that love? What drama, what tragedy, and perhapswhat ludicrous comedy, in which he, the priest, would play the odious andridiculous character?

This love, which plunged him into an ocean of delights, would it not plungehim also into an abyss of misfortunes?

Could it proceed for long without being known and remarked?

Scandal, shame, and death perhaps, a terrible trinity, were they waitingnot at his door?

For the viper which harboured at his hearth, had its piercing glassy eyefixed unweariedly on him; and how could he crush the viper?

What could he do? What could he venture? He remembered hearing of priestswho had fled away with young girls whom they had seduced, and he thoughtfor an instant that he would carry off Suzanne and fly.

Willingly would he have left behind him his honour and his reputation,willingly would he have torn his priestly robe on the sharp points ofinfamy and scandal, willingly would he have quitted for ever that cursedparsonage where shame and humiliation, vice and remorse were henceforthinstalled; but Suzanne, would she follow him?

Then, had he well weighed the mortifications which await the apostatepriest!

To be nameless in society, with no future, repulsed, despised, scoffed atby all!

Should he, like the Pere Hyacinth, go and found a free church in somecorner of the republic, and rove through Europe, like him, to confer aboutmorality, the rights of women and virtue?

Would not poverty come and knock at his door? Poverty with a beloved wife!It would appear a hideous and terrifying spectre, chilling in its lividapproach and in its kisses of love.

To struggle against these obstacles he would need high energy and highcourage, and he felt that courage and energy were lacking in him, themiserable coward, who had shamefully succumbed to the clumsy artifices of alascivious woman, who had allowed the first fruits of his virginity and hisyouth to be lost in shameful debauch; while close by there was an adorablemaiden whose heart was beating in unison with his own.

Thus did his reflection lead him till the end of the Gospel, and when hesaid the _Deo gratias_ he had as yet decided nothing.

LXXVI.

AWAKENING.

"We never permit with impunity the mind to analyze the liberty to indulge in certain loves; once begin to reflect on those deep and troublesome matters which are called _passion_ and _duty_, the soul which naturally delights in the investigation of every truth, is unable to stop in its exploration."

ERNEST FRYDEAU (_La Comtesse de Chalis_).

When Marcel had gone away, Suzanne, when she had quietly shut thestreet-door, by which she had gone out, went upstairs to her room and satdown on the side of her bed.

She asked herself if she had not just been the sport of an hallucination,if it was really true that a man had gone out of the house, who had heldher in his arms, to whom she had yielded herself.

Everything had happened so rapidly, that she had had no time to think, toreflect, to say to herself: "What does he want with me?" no time even torecover herself.

A kiss, a violent emotion, a transient indignation, a struggle for a fewseconds, a sharp pain, and that was all; the crime was consummated, she hadlost her honour, and that was love!

She wished not to believe it, but her disordered corsage, her dishevelledhair upon her bare shoulders, her crumpled dressing-gown, and more than allthat, the violent leaping of her heart, told her that she was not dreaming.

He was gone, the priest; he had fled away into the night, happy and lightof heart, leaving her alone with her shame, and the ulcer of remorse in hersoul.

And then big tears rolled down her cheeks and fell upon her breasts, stillburning with his feverish caresses. "It is all over! it is all over. Whereis my virginity?"

Weep, poor girl, weep, for that virginity is already far away, and nothing,it is said, flees faster than the illusion which departs, if it be not avirginity which flies away.

And a vague terror was mingled with her remorse.

The first apprehension which strikes brutally against the edifice ofillusions of the woman who has committed a fault, is the anxiety regardingthe opinion of the man who has incited her to that fault; I am speaking, beit understood, of one in whom there remains the feeling of modesty, withoutwhich she is not a woman, but an unclean female.

When she awakes from her short delirium, she says to herself:

--What will he think of me? What will he believe? Will he not despise me?

And she has good grounds for apprehension; for often (I believe I have saidso already) the contempt of her accomplice is all that remains to her.

And then, what man is there who, after having at length possessed_illegitimately_ the wife or the maiden so long pursued and desired, doesnot say to himself in the morning, when his fever is dissipated, when thebandage which hitherto has covered the eyes of love _suppliant_, is unboundfrom the eyes of love _satisfied_, when the _unknown_ which has so manycharms, has become the _known_ that we despise, when of the rosy, inflatedillusion there remains but a yellow skeleton: "She has given herself to metrustingly and artlessly; but might she not have given herself with equalfacility to another, if I had not been there? for in fact ... whatdevil...?"

A strange question, but one which unavoidably takes up its abode in theheart, and waits to come forth and be present one day on the lips, at thetime when Satiety gives the last kick to the last house of cards erected byPleasure.

And it is thus that after doing everything to draw a woman into our ownfall, we are discontented with her for her sacrifice and for her love.

For there comes a moment when the _angel_ for whom one would have givenone's life, the _divinity_ for whom one would have sacrificed country,family, fortune, future, is no more than a common mistress, ranked in theordinary lot with the rest, and for whom one would hesitate to spendhalf-a-sovereign.

Have you not chanced sometimes to follow with an envious eye, on some freshmorning in spring or on a lovely autumn evening, the solitary walk of aloving couple? They go slowly, hand in hand, avoiding notice, selecting theshady and secret paths, or the darkest walks in the woods. He is handsome,young and strong; she is pretty and charming, pale with emotion, orblushing with modesty. What things they murmur as they lean one towardsanother, what sweet projects of an endless future, what oaths which oughtto be eternal, sworn untiringly, lip on lip.

"One of those noble loves which have no end."

Happy egotists. They think but of themselves; all, except themselves, isinsupportable to them, all but themselves wearies and weighs upon them. Theuniverse is themselves, life is the present which glides along, and inorder to delay the present and enjoy it at their ease, they have no scruplein mortgaging the future. And they go on, listening to the divine harmony,the mysterious poem which sings in their own heart, of youth and love.

You have envied them; who would not envy them? It is happiness which passesby. Make way respectfully. What! you smiled sorrowfully! Ah, it is becauselike me, you have seen behind these poor trustful children, following themas the _insultores_ used to follow the triumphal chariot of old, a demonwith sinister countenance who with his brutal hands will soon roughly tearthe veil woven of fancies; the Reality, who is there with his rags, gettingready to cast them upon their bright tinsels of gauze and spangles.

Wait a few years, a few months, perhaps only a few weeks. What has becomeof those handsome lovers so tenderly entwined? They swore mouth to mouth anendless love. Where are they? Where are their loves?

As well would it be worth to ask where are the leaves of autumn which theevening breeze carried away last year.

"But where are the snows of yester-year?"

What! already, it is finished! And yet he had sworn to love her always.Yes, but she also had sworn to be always amiable. Which of the two firstforfeited the oath?

There has been then a tragedy, a drama, despair, tears? Nonsense! Those whohad sworn to die one for the other, one fine day parted as strangers.

The charming young girl whom you saw passing by, proud and radiant on thearm of that artless stripling, see, here she comes, a little weary, alittle faded, but still charming, on the arm of that cynical Bohemian.

That poetical school-girl, who smiled and scattered daisies on the head ofher lover, as he knelt before her, has become the adored wife of a dulltallow-chandler; and the other one, who took the ivy for her emblem, andwho said to her sweetheart: "I cling till death!" has clung to andseparated from half-a-dozen others without dying, and has finished byfastening herself to a rheumatical old churchwarden, peevish butsubstantial.

And the lover? He is no better: he has loved twenty since; the deep sea ofoblivion has passed between them, and among so many vanished mistresses,can he precisely remember her name?

Suzanne did not say all this to herself, she was ignorant of the whirlpoolsof life, but she felt instinctively that she was about to be precipatedinto an abyss.

She was not perverse, she was merely frivolous and coquettish, but she hadreceived a vicious education. Her imagination only had been corrupted, herheart had remained till then untainted. It was a good ear of corn whichsomehow or another had made its way into the field of tares.

She reproached herself bitterly therefore for the shameful facility withwhich she had yielded herself to the priest, and she sought for an excuseto try and palliate her fault in her own eyes.

But she was unable to discover any genuine excuses. A young girl ispardoned for yielding herself to her lover in a moment of forgetfulness andexcitement, because she hopes that marriage will atone for her fault.

But what had she to claim? What could she expect from this Cure?

Again a young wife is pardoned for deceiving an old husband, or a husbandwho is worthless, debauched and brutal, and for seeking a friend abroadwhom she cannot find at her fire-side; but she? Whom had she deceived? Herfather, who though severe, adored her. Whom had she dishonoured? The whitehairs of that worthy, brave old man.

She saw clearly that she could find no excuse, and she was compelled toconfess that she ought to feel ashamed of herself; but what affected hermost was the thought that her lover, the priest, must have been extremelysurprised at his victory himself, and that if he too were to attempt tofind an excuse for her conduct, he could discover none either. But inproportion as she felt astonished at her shame, as she saw into what acorner she had been driven, as she dreaded the man's scorn, for whom shehad fallen so low, did she feel her love grow greater.

LXXVII.

CONSOLATIONS.

"Every fault finds its excuse in itself. This is the sophistry in which we are richest. The struggle of good and evil is serious, and really painful, only in the case of a man who has been brought up in a position where actions, deeds and thoughts have had the power of self-examination."

EMILE LECLERCQ (_Une fille du peuple_).

Before her fault, or if you prefer it, her fall, this was but the oddcaprice of an ardent, amorous, passionate young girl whose feelings areexhilarated and excited by a licentious imagination, continually nourishedby the senseless reading of the adventures of heroes, who have existednowhere but in the brain of novelists.

Therefore, eager for the unknown, she hastens to lay hold of the firstrascal who comes forward, having a little self-assurance, talkativeness andgood looks, and who will be for one day the ideal she has dreamed of, if heknows how to brazen it out.

"Every woman is at heart a rake," said the great poet Alexander Pope.

And as for those who, in spite of the heat of an ungovernable temperament,remain virtuous and chaste, we must scarcely be pleased at them on thataccount.

It is simply because they have not had the opportunity to sin. Theopportunity, which makes the thief, is also the touchstone of women'svirtue. Therefore, when this blessed opportunity presents itself, althoughit is said to be bald, they well know how to find other hairs on it bywhich they seize and do not let it go again.

Certainly there are exceptions, and I am far from saying _Ab una disceomnes_.

You, Madame, for instance, who read me, I am convinced that you are not inthat category of women of whom the Englishman Pope made this wicked remark.

Suzanne felt now possessed by a wild infatuation for the man to whom shehad yielded herself almost without love; and do not young girls frequentlyyield themselves in this manner? She felt herself attracted towards him bythe purely physical and magnetic phenomenon which impels the female towardsthe male; for we shall try in vain and talk in vain, raise ourselves on ourdwarfish heels, talk of the ethereal essence of our soul and thequintessence of our feelings, idealize woman and deify love, there alwayscomes a moment when we become like the brute, and when the passion ofseraphims cannot be distinguished in anything from that of man.

........who goes by night In some street obscure, to a lodging low and dark.

Suzanne certainly had not taken note of her impressions.

Attracted towards Marcel by his sympathetic beauty, by his sweet andunctuous voice, and especially by the vague sorrow displayed on hiscountenance, perhaps still more by the opposition and slanders of herfather, she had allowed herself to be won, before she know where she wasgoing.

She was far from any carnal thought, and she would have been considerablysurprised if anyone had told her that the priest loved her otherwise thanas a sister is loved.

But that is not what we men understand by love.

The Werthers who regard their mistress as a sacred divinity whom we oughtto touch with trembling, are rare. They are not met again after eighteen.Marcel was more than eighteen; therefore he had found his desires becomemore inflamed than ever in the presence of his mistress.

If he had been hesitating and timid, like Charlotte's lover, I do not doubtthat she would have found time to gather within herself the force necessaryto resist him, but she felt herself mastered before even she had recoveredfrom her terror and confusion.

I do not wish to try and excuse her, but she repented; and how far moreworthy of respect is the repentance of certain fallen women than thehaughty virtue of certain others.

And, perceiving that she found no excuse for her fault, Suzanne tried todeceive herself by exalting above measure the worth of the man who hadruined her.

--He is no ordinary man after all, she said to herself, and we do not lovethe man we wish. It does honour to the heart to repose its love rightly. Itis natural then that I should say, that I should confess to myself, since Icannot confess it to others. Yes, I love him; who would not love him? Yes,I have given myself to him; but who in my place would have had the power toresist him?

Is it not a fact that everybody here loves him? Have I not observed thelooks of all these village girls fixed on him with eager desire? It wouldhave been easy for him to make his choice among the prettiest, but he hasseen me only.

He is a priest, but what does that matter? is he not a man? And this man ashandsome as a god, I feel that I love him much more than a lover ought tobe loved; for I love not only for the happiness of loving him and beingloved by him, but also from pride, because I am proud of him, because Iadmire his fine and noble nature, so open, so sweet, so charming, soaudacious, which, led astray into this false and thankless position, mustfind itself so unhappy. Then, I was so affected the first time that my lookmet his, I felt that all my being was his, but especially my inwardfeelings, my spirit, my soul, and my sentiments.

And in this way there is a great difference in man and in woman in theirlove.

In man, possession most frequently causes passion to disappear; the realitykills the ideal; the awakening, the dream; in woman on the other hand, itnearly always enhances, for the first time at any rate, the fascination ofbeing loved, for she attaches herself to him in proportion to the trouble,the shame, the sacrifice.

For with man, love is but an episode, while with woman it is her wholelife.

LXXVIII.

FALSE ALARM.

"She's there, say'st thou? What, can that be the maid Whose pure, fresh face attracted me but now, When I beheld her in her home; alas, And can the flower so quickly fade?"...

DELPHINE GAY.

Suzanne, who had passed a sleepless night, was fast asleep in the morning,when her father burst into her room like a hurricane.

She woke with a start, all pale and trembling; she tried nevertheless toassume the most innocent and the calmest air.

--What is the matter, papa?

But Durand did not answer. He surveyed the room with a scrutinizing eye,apparently, interrogating the furniture and the walls, as if he were askingthem if they had not been witnesses of some unusual event.

But if walls at times have eyes and ears, they have no tongue; they cannotrelate the things they have seen. Then he turned towards his daughter insuch a singular way that Suzanne dropped her eyes and felt she was going tofaint.

--Suzanne, he demanded of her abruptly, did you hear anything in the night?

--I! she said with the most profound astonishment.

--Yes, you, Suzanne. It seems to me that I am speaking to you. Did you hearanything in the night?

She thought she saw at first that her father knew nothing, and, in spite ofherself, a long sigh of relief escaped her breast; therefore she repliedwith the most natural air in the world:

--What do you mean that I have heard, father?

--Something has happened, my daughter, this very night, in the garden, saidDurand, scanning his words, something extraordinary.

This time Suzanne was terrified.

Nevertheless she collected all her courage; fully determined to lie to thelast extremity.

--Well?

--Well, father? you puzzle me.

And leaning her pretty pale head on her plump arm, she looked at her fatherwith perfect assurance.

She was charming thus. Her black hair, long and curling, partly covered herround, polished shoulders, and her velvety eye was frankly fixed onDurand's.

The old soldier was moved; he looked at his daughter with admiration, andreproached himself doubtlessly for his wrongful suspicions, for he saidgently:

--Do not lie to me, Suzanne, and answer my questions frankly. I know verywell that you are not guilty, that you cannot be guilty, that you havenothing to reproach yourself with; you quite see then that I am not angry.But sometimes young girls allow themselves to be led into acts ofthoughtlessness which they believe to be of no consequence, and which yethave a gravity which they do not foresee. Last night a man entered thegarden.

--The garden? said Suzanne, alarmed afresh, and ever feeling the fixed andscrutinizing look dwelling upon her. No doubt, it is a thief. No, father,no, I have heard nothing.

--I have several reasons for believing that it is not a thief; thieves takemore precautions; this one walked heavily in my asparagus-bed.

--Ah, what a pity! In the asparagus-bed! He has crushed some, no doubt...

--Yes, in the asparagus-bed. The mark of his feet is distinctly visible.

Suzanne could contain herself no longer. Her self-possession deserted her,and she felt that her strength was going also. She believed that her fatherknew all, she saw herself lost, and, to conceal her shame and hide herterror, she buried herself under the bed-clothes, sobbing, and saying:

--Ah, papa! Ah, papa!

The old soldier mistook her terror, her despair and her tears.

--Come, he cried, confound it, Suzanne, are you mad? Don't cry like this,little girl, don't cry like this, like a fool: I only wanted to know if youhad heard anything.

--No, father, sobbed Suzanne under her bed-clothes.

--You did not hear him? Well! very good. That is all, confound it. Anothertime we will keep our eyes open, that is all.

But the shock had been too great, and Suzanne continued to utter sobs; shedecided, however, to show her face all bathed in tears, and said to herfather in a reproachful tone:

--And besides I did not know what you meant with your night-robber and yourasparagus-bed; I was fast asleep, and you woke me up with a start to tellme that.

--True, I have been rather abrupt, I was wrong; well, don't let us talkabout it any more, hang it.

But Suzanne, having recovered herself, wanted to enjoy her triumph to theend.

--I don't know what you could have meant, she added still in tears, bycoming and telling me in an angry tone that a man had been walking in yourasparagus, as if it were my fault.

--It is true nevertheless, Suzanne. It is quite plain. I arrived thismorning quite dusty from my journey, and went down into the garden veryquietly as I usually do, thinking of nothing, when all at once I stopped.What did I behold? ... footsteps, child, a man's footsteps, right in themiddle of my borders. "Hang it," I cried, "here is a blackguard who makeshimself at home." I followed their track, which led me to the wall of thehouse and right up to the stair-case. That was rather bad, you know. Therewas still some fresh soil on the steps. Good Heavens! I asked myself thenwhat it meant, and I came to you to learn.

--To me, father. But I know no more about it than you do. Why do yousuppose that I know more about it than you?

Durand had great confidence in his daughter: he knew her to be giddy andfrivolous, but he did not suppose for an instant her giddiness andfrivolity amounted to the forgetfulness of duty.

Many fathers in this manner allow themselves to be deceived by theirchildren with the same blindness and meekness as foolish husbands aredeceived by their wives, till the day, when the bandage which covered theireyes, falls at length, and they discover to their amazement that the_cherub_ which they had brought up with so much care and love, and whoselong roll of good qualities, talents and virtues they loved to recountbefore strangers, is nothing but a little being saturated with vice andhide-bound in overweening vanity.

He embraced her with a father's tender and affectionate look, and for sometime gazed upon Suzanne's clear eyes:

--No, he said to himself, there can be no vice in this young soul; is notthis calm brow and these pure eyes the evidence of the purity of her soul?

And, taking one of her hands in his, he remained near her bed and said toher gently:

--It is a fact, I say again, my child, that I know young people sometimes,without thinking or intending any evil, commit imprudent acts, which arenothing at first, but which often have dangerous consequences. Sometimescarelessly they fasten their eyes on a young man whom they meet at church,at a ball, during a walk, or no matter where ... well! that is enough forhim to construe the look as an advance which is made to him, or at least asan encouragement, and to believe himself authorized then to undertake someenterprise. Good Heavens, all seductions begin in the same way. We men arefor the most part very infatuated with ourselves. I, my dearest child, canmake that confession without any shame, for I have long since passed theage of self-conceit, although we still come across some old rascals whowant to gobble up chickens, and forget that they have lost their teeth. Menare very foolish, young men particularly, and willingly imagine that allthe ladies are dying of love for their little persons. A young woman passesby, and happens to look at them, as one looks at a dog or a pig; good, theysay directly, "Stop, stop, that woman wants me." And immediately they trythe knot of their tie, arrange their collar, and, assuming a triumphantair, begin to follow her and consider themselves authorized to address herimpertinently.

--Ah, ah, said Suzanne, I can see that now, father. There were some youngfellows who used to follow us always at school, with their moustaches wellwaxed and a fine parting in their hair behind. Heavens, how they haveamused us.

--At other times, said Durand, a young girl is at her window. A gentleman,passing by, all at once lifts his nose. The young girl sees him, their eyesmeet: "Eh, eh," says the gentleman, "there is a little thing who is rathernice; 'pon my word, she is not bad, not bad at all, and I believe that itwould not be difficult ... the devil, it would be charming! What a look shegave me! let us have a try." And the rogue commences to walk up and downunder the windows, doing all he can to compromise the girl.

And all these young fellows, my dear, are like that; they have the mostdeplorable opinion of women, that one would say that their mothers had allbeen very easy-going ladies. And now, that is enough.

Together they passed in minute review all the young village _beaux_, butDurand's suspicion did not rest on any.

LXXIX

IN THE _DILIGENCE_

"Hydras and apes. Triboulet puts on the mitre, and Bobeche the crown, Crispin plays Lycurgus, and Pasquin parades as Solon. Scapin is heard calling himself Sire, Mascarillo is My Lord ... Cheeks made for slaps, are titles for honours. The more they are branded on the shoulder, the more they are bedisened on the back. Trestallion is radiant, and Pancrace resplendent."

CAMILLE LEMONNIERE (_Paris-Berlin_).

During this time, the _diligence_ for Nancy was carrying away Marcel andRidoux at full trot. Marcel had appeared to yield to his uncle'sexhortations, and said to himself: "Let us go; that does not bind me toanything. In a couple of days at the latest, I shall be on my way back;"and this had made the worthy Ridoux quite happy.

They were alone in the _coupe_, and could converse at their ease.

--Look at this lovely country, that valley, those little hills, and awaythere the large woods, and do you not think that I shall feel some regretat leaving this part?

--And that little white house at the foot of the hill?... Is it there?

--Ah! so Veronica has pointed it out to you.

--Reluctantly, my son. But I wanted to know all. She is a cautious andtrustworthy person who is entirely devoted to you.

--Not a word more about that cautious woman, uncle, I pray.

--Let us rather talk about your promotion.

--My promotion. I assure you, uncle, that I am no longer ambitious.

--What are you saying there? You are no longer ambitious! You are goingperhaps to make me believe that you are happy in your shell. Come, rouseyourself. Has a moral torpor already seized you? You are no longerambitious. Well, I will be so for you, and I intend, yes, I intend, do youhear, that you should make your way. What happiness for a poor old man,like me, when I hear them say: "Monsieur Ridoux, I have just seen yournephew, Monseigneur Marcel, go by." I shall answer then: "It is I, however,who have made him, who have formed him, his Right-Reverence." You will giveme your patronage, will you not?

--Dear uncle, said Marcel softened, pressing the old Cure's hands, youstill have those ideas then, you always think then that I shall become aBishop?

--What? yes I think so; I do more than that, I am sure of it. Are you notof the stuff of which they make them? Why should not you become one as wellas another?

--A bishopric is not for the first-comer.

--Don't worry me. Are you the first-comer? See, my dear fellow, you reallymust get this into your head, that in order to succeed in our profession,evangelical virtues are more detrimental than useful, and that there aretwo things indispensable: first to have a good outside show, to stiryourself and to know how to intrigue to the utmost. As for talent, that isan accessory which can do no harm, but after all, it is merely anaccessory. Now, you have a good outside show; you have more talent than isnecessary, there is only one thing in which you are faulty, you are notsufficiently intriguing. Well, I will be so for you, and I will stir myselfup for you. Success wholly lies in that.

You say that a bishopric is not for the first-comer. You make me laugh.Look at ours, Monseigneur Collard; what transcendant genius does hepossess? Is not his morality somewhat elastic, and his virtues verydoubtful? But he has a magnificent head, and that from all time has pleasedthe world in general and the women in particular. Ah, the women, my dearfriend, the women! you do not know what a weight they are in the scales ofour destinies, and in the choice of our superiors. I know something aboutit, and if I had had a smaller nose and a better-made mouth, I should notbe now Cure of St. Nicholas. But I am ugly and they despise me. How many Iknow who owe their cross and their mitre to the way in which they say inthe pulpit, "my sisters", and to the amiable manner in which they receivethe confessions of influential sheep.

--You confess, uncle, that it is abominable.

--I confess that it is in human nature, that is all I confess. Is it notlogical to befriend people whose appearance pleases you, rather than thosewhose face is disagreeable to you? Good Heavens, it has always been thecase since the commencement of the world. All that you could say on thesubject would not make the slightest change. Let us therefore profit by ouradvantages when we have advantages, and leave fruitless jeremiads to thefoolish and envious.

--Birth also counts for much in our fortune.

--Often, but not always. Look at Collard again, who is the son of ajourneyman baker.

--He has that in common with Pope Benedict XII.

--Yes, but he has that only. Therefore, since it is neither his birth, norhis genius, nor his virtues which have helped him on, it is then somethingelse.

--In fact, ecclesiastical history abounds in similar instances. Men,starting from the most humble condition, have attained the supreme dignity:Benedict XI had tended sheep, the great Sixtus V was a swineherd, Urban VIwas the son of a cobbler, Alexander V had been a beggar.

--And a host of others of the same feather. Well, that ought to encourageyou who are the son neither of a cobbler, or of a pig-seller.

--Would to heaven that I were a cobbler or a shepherd myself; I could havemarried according to my taste and have become the worthy father of afamily, an honest artisan rather than a bad Cure.

--Yes, but Mademoiselle Durand would not have wanted you.

--Oh, uncle, do not speak of that young person with whom you are notacquainted, and regarding whom you are strangely mistaken, for you see herthrough the dirty spectacles of my servant. You want to take me away on heraccount, but are there not young persons everywhere? You know, as well asI, to what dangers young priests are exposed; shall I be safe from thosedangers by going away? No. And since it is agreed between us that, no morethan others, can we avoid certain necessities of nature....

-Alas, alas, human infirmity!

Omnia vincit amor, et nos cadamus amori.

--Then....

--Then, we choose our company; for instance, that pretty girl there.

And Ridoux leant his head out of the door. They had just reached Vic, wherethey changed horses.

LXXX.

AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE.

"Methinks Queen Mab upon your cheek Doth blend the tints of cream and rose. And lends the pearls which deck her hat And rubies too from off her gown, To be your own fit ornament."

E. DARIO (_Strophes_).

Before the _Hotel des Messageries_, a young girl, modestly dressed, waswaiting for the _diligence_, with an old band-box in her hand.

Marcel, who had also put his head out of the coach-door, looked at her withsurprise. He had seen this girl somewhere. Yes, he remembered her. He hadseen that charming countenance, he had already admired that fair hair andthose blue eyes. But the face had grown pale; the cheeks had lost theirfreshness with the sun-burn, and the bosom its opulence. Marcel thought herprettier and more delicate like this. For it was really she, themountebank's daughter, whom he had seen a few weeks before, dancing in themarket-place of Althausen.

By what chance was she still in the neighbourhood, this travelling swallow?

Was the house on wheels then in the vicinity with its two broken-windedhorses, and the clown with the cracked voice, and the big woman with thered face, and the thin and hungry little children?

He looked if he could not see them all, but he saw only the pretty fairgirl, who had recognized him also, and made him a friendly bow.

--Mademoiselle Zulma! called the conductor.

--It is I, she said.

--This way, this way, my little dear, said the conductor with agood-natured familiarity which disgusted Marcel; there is no room inside.And, to the priest's great delight, he opened the coupe.

The young girl seemed surprised, for she hesitated a little and said:

--What, in the coupe?

--Yes, my imp of Satan, in the coupe, and in good hands too. Do youcomplain? If you are not converted yet, here are two gentlemen who willundertake your conversion.

--Well, I ask for nothing better, she answered laughing; and addressingherself to Marcel: Will you take my band-box for me?

He took the box, and at the same time offered his hand to help her to getup. She leant on it prettily; and bowing to him, and to Ridoux also, shesat down beside Marcel.

--You have come back then into the country, Mademoiselle.

--I have not left it, sir; I have been ill. I am coming out of thehospital.

--Oh, really. And what has been the matter with you?

--'Pon my word, I don't know. I caught a chill after an eveningperformance, and when I woke up the next morning, I could not move arm orleg. My father was obliged to leave me here in the hospital. They have beenvery kind to me, and an old gentleman has even paid my coach-fare. Oh,there are good people everywhere.

--And you are going to Nancy?

--To Nancy first, then I shall rejoin the company, which ought to be atEpinal.

Ridoux was listening in his corner.

--You know this young person then? he said.

--I know her through having seen her once at Althausen.

--Twice, the young girl corrected him: when I arrived and when I went away.You remember, we were both of us at our window?

Marcel remembered it very well; he remembered still better the fantasticsight in the market-place, and the lascivious dance, and the theatricallow-cut dress of the mountebank, which had awakened all at once the passionof his feelings. But as he was afraid of allowing the young girl to suspectthat the memory of her had left too deep a mark upon him, he answered.

--I don't remember.

Meanwhile, a throng of beggars besieged the _diligence_; allured by thesight of the two cassocks, they recited all at the same time _litanies_,_paters_ and _aves_ in undefinable accents and in lamentable voices.Ridoux and Marcel with much ostentation distributed a few _sous_ among themost bare-faced and importunate, that is to say among the most expertbeggars and consequently those who least deserved attention, then theythrew themselves back into the carriage and shut their ears.

--I have nothing more, said Ridoux, I have nothing more; go and work, youset of idlers.

--Poor things, murmured the player; no doubt, among the number there aresome who cannot work.

--There, said Ridoux, is where the old order of things is ever to belamented. Formerly there were convents which fed all the beggars, while nowthese starving creatures will soon eat us all up. Ah, it makes the heartbleed to see such misery.

And he took a pinch of snuff.

A poor woman, pale and sickly, with a child on her arm, kept timidly behindthe greedy crowd. Zulma perceived her, and made her a sign. Then, taking apie out of her hat-box, she cut it into two and gave her one half.

--You are giving away your breakfast, said Marcel.

--Yes, sir, it is a present from the kind Sisters. I should have eaten ityesterday, but I preferred to keep it for to-day; you see I have done agood action, she added laughing.

--I see that the Sisters were very kind to you.

--Yes, sir, they have converted me, they made me confess and take theCommunion, which I had not done for a long time.

--That is well, said Ridoux.

The _diligence_ had started again. A tiny child, emaciated, in rags andwith bare feet was running, cap in hand.

He was quite out of breath, and with a little panting, plaintive voice, hecried:

--Charity, kind Monsieur le Cure; charity, if you please.

--Go away, said Ridoux, go away, little rascal.

-My mother is very ill, said the little one: there is no bread at home.

--Wait, wait, I am going to point you out to the _gendarmes_.

The child stopped short, and sadly put on his cap again.

--Poor little fellow, said the dancer.

And she threw him the other half of the pie.

Ridoux thought he saw an offensive meaning in this quite spontaneousaction, for he cried angrily:

--Would you tell us then, Mademoiselle, that you have taken the Communion?No doubt it was with that piece of meat.

--Why, sir?

--In what religion have you been brought up?

--In the Catholic religion.

--Is it possible? Really! you are a Catholic and you keep some pie for yourmeals on a fast-day, on a Friday! A Friday! he repeated with an accent ofthe deepest indignation: has not your Cure then taught that it is forbiddento eat meat the day on which Our Lord Jesus Christ died to redeem you fromyour sins?

--I know it, answered the young girl colouring, but we are not able toattend to religion much. We do not belong to any parish.

--What do you mean by "we?" What is your calling?

--I am a travelling artiste, sir.

--A travelling artiste. What is that?

--I dance character dances, and I appear in _tableaux vivants_ and _posesplastiques_.

--_Poses plastiques_! at your age? Are you not ashamed to follow thatcalling?

--That is the calling which I was taught, sir; I know no other, replied theyoung girl, whose eyes filled with tears. I have always heard it said thatwhen we gain our living honourably, we have nothing to reproach ourselveswith.

--Honourably! that's a fine word!

--I mean to say, without wronging our neighbour.

--And you are talking nonsense. Can you think your life is honourable, whenyou do not discharge even the most elementary duty of a good Catholic,which is to keep the Friday as a fast-day? And not only that, you encourageothers in your vices; in short, that wretched woman, to whom you have giventhat piece of meat, you incite her to disobey the Church....

--I did not think of that.

--And that little child, he continued with growing anger, that little childto whom you have given this bad example, whom you lead into a disorderlylife by throwing him, before two ecclesiastics, some pie on a Friday....You have caused this little child to offend. Do you not know then what OurLord Jesus Christ has said about those who cause the little children tooffend? But you know nothing about it. Do you take heed of the DivineMaster's words, you who, at the beginning of your life, display your youthin sinful dances for the lewd pleasure of passers-by?

--I make my living as I can, replied Zulma, wounded by the rebuke.

--A fine way of making your living! You would do better to pray to the HolyVirgin.

--Will the Holy Virgin give me what I want to eat?

--Ah, they are all like that. Eating! Eating! They only think of eating! Itappeals that they have said everything when they have said: "Who will giveme to eat?" That is the great argument to excuse the lowest callings, andwork on Sundays. Eating? Eating? Eh, unhappy child, and your soul? You mustnot think only of your body, which will be one day eaten by worms. Yoursoul also requires to eat.

Marcel interrupted.

--Uncle, I ask you to excuse this young person. She is ignorant of theduties of a Christian, and it is not her fault. This is a soul to guide.

--I do not say that it is not; I wish then that she may find someone toguide her.

Thereupon he opened his breviary; but he had not finished the second pageof that potent narcotic before he was sound asleep.

LXXXI.

A LITTLE CONFESSION

"Let us not ask of the tree what fruit it bears."

CAMILLE LEMONNIER (_Mes Medailles_).

--Monsieur le Cure is a trifle abrupt, said Marcel, bat he has an excellentheart.

--Yes, he seems to be quickly offended. It is quite different with the oldgentleman who came to see me at the Hospital. There is a good sort of aman!

--The Chaplain, no doubt.

--No, he is a judge. When I knew it, I was quite alarmed at it. A judge,that makes one think of the _gendarmes_. I was quite in order, fortunately.Besides, he is the president of a great Society, which enters everywhere,and knows what is going on everywhere. Ah, he is a man who frightened mevery much the first time I saw him. But he is as kind as can be.

--You are talking, no doubt, of Monsieur Tibulle, President of the Societyof St. Vincent de Paul, and Judge of the Court at Vic.

--Monsieur Tibulle, that is he. A benevolent man, but who does good only topeople who are religious and honest and right-minded--as he says. As I aman artiste, the Sister was afraid that he would not trouble himself aboutme, but he saw plainly that I was an honest girl.

--What do you mean by honest girl?

She looked at him attentively:

--You know very well, she said.

--But it is not enough to receive the Communion once, by chance, to behonest.

--Was I not obliged to go to confession before?

--Ah, I can explain it all now. You have been washed from your sins. Thatis well, my daughter, but you must not fall into them again.

--Fall where?

--Into your sins.

--That will be very hard, said Zulma with a sigh, for I commit so many ofthem.

--Many! so young! How old are you?

--Sixteen.

--Sixteen; and so grown-up already. But what are the sins that you cancommit at sixteen?

--Many. The Cure of the Hospital has assured me so. He said to me that Iwas a cup of iniquity.

--Oh, he has exaggerated; I feel sure that he has exaggerated. What sins doyou commit then?

--I do not say my prayers, I do not fast on Friday, I do not go to Mass.

--What then?

--Others besides.

--What are they?

--I do not know; there are so many.

--Which are those that you commit by preference? The sins which you havejust related to me are infractions of the Church's laws. But the others ...you do not know what are the sins which you take pleasure in committing?

--They all give me pleasure. If I sin, it is because it gives me pleasure,is it not? If it did not give me pleasure, I should not sin.

--But, after all, there are pleasures which you love more than others.

--Assuredly. Are not all pleasures sins?

--All those which are not innocent, yes.

--How can I distinguish innocent pleasures from those which are not so?

--Your conscience is the best judge.

--And when my conscience says nothing?

--That is not a sin.

--Well, Monsieur le Cure of the Hospital has accused me of a heap of sinsfor which my conscience does not reproach me at all.

--My child, habit sometimes hardens the heart, but you are not of an age tohave a hardened heart. I feel certain that your heart, on the contrary, iskind and tender, and that if you commit faults, it is through ignorance.What are then those great faults?

--Must I tell you them in order to be an honest girl?

--Yes, I should like to hear them; I might be able to give you some goodadvice. Advice is not to be despised, particularly in your condition,exposed as you are, young and pretty as you are.

--Pretty! you think me pretty?

--Yes, said Marcel smiling; am I the first to tell you so, and don't youknow it?

--Oh, no, you are not the first. When I am passing by somewhere, or when Iam taking part in the outside show, I often hear them say: Eh, the prettygirl! But you are the first from whom it has given me so much pleasure tohear it. Is that a sin too?

--A little sin of vanity, but extremely pardonable. If you have no greaterones than that, you are really an honest girl.

He looked at her and smiled. Zulma caught his look, and blushed.

--Where are you going to stay at Nancy?

--The gentleman who paid my fare, gave me also the address of a house whereI can rest for a day or two while I am waiting for news from my company:the _Hotel du Cygne de la Croix_.

--I know it, said Ridoux who had just woke up, it is a respectable house,the best which a young person like you could meet with. I have no doubt butthat you will be welcomed there and at a moderate price, being recommendedby the worthy Monsieur Tibulle. The mistress of the establishment is aconscientious lady, well-disposed and observing her religious duties. Sheis not one who will give you meat on a Friday. Monsieur Tibulle takes agreat interest in you then?

--Yes, sir. He has even said that if I wished, he would find a moresuitable position for me; but what position could he give me?

--He might find you some ... he is an influential man. I invite you tofollow his advice. He is a member of the _Society for the protection ofpoor young girls_.

--But, no doubt, I shall not see him again.

--Then, said Marcel, I, for my part, would wish to be useful to you; butunfortunately, you are only passing through, and I also am not here forlong. Nevertheless, if for one cause or another you should have need ofanyone ... you understand ... a young girl might find herself at a loss ina huge town ... you will enquire for the Abbe Marcel at this address.

-Many thanks, sir.

They had arrived. The travellers separated. The young girl with her smallamount of luggage directed her steps in all confidence towards the innwhich the old member of the Society of St. Vincent de Paul had acquaintedher with, while Ridoux and Marcel took their way to the Place d'Alliance,where resided the Comtesse de Montluisant.

LXXXII.

THE CHURCH-WOMAN.

"Devotion is the sole resource of coquettes: when they are become old, God becomes the last resource of all women who know not aught else to do."

MME. DE REUX.

As _his uncle_ had foreseen, the young Cure pleased the old lady greatly.She examined him with satisfaction and predicted that he would make hisway.

--You have not deceived me, she said to Ridoux, here is a priest such aswe require. We are encumbered with awkward, ridiculous, red-raced men, whobring religion into disrepute. Why not send all those peasants back totheir village, and select men like Monsieur l'Abbe? It is a shame, anabsolute shame to allow you to stagnate in this way. I shall reproachMonseigneur severely for it.

--It is the fault of the Grand-Vicar Gobin, said Ridoux; he had taken adislike to my nephew.

--I have known that. He was a very harsh and a very tiresome man. Toofrozen virtue which has melted, I am told. I do not want to believe it. Heis the talk of the town. It is abominable, but I do not pity him. That iswhat comes of not making religion amiable. Although we are old, MonsieurMarcel, we are of the new school; we firmly believe that religion andagreeable gaiety ought to proceed in harmony. We want conciliatory andamiable priests. In this way the women let themselves be won over. I mayconfess it to you, I who am double your age; and in so far as we shallhave the women, the world is ours.

While asking himself, what influence this more than middle-aged lady couldexercise over the Bishop's decisions, Marcel quickly perceived that inorder to be successful, he had only to be in the good graces of thisestimable dowager, and, in spite of the remembrance of Suzanne, he tried tobe amiable and witty.

But soon his ideas of ambition returned to him in this sumptuousdrawing-room, surrounded with comfort and luxury: he thought that he hadonly to wish it, in order to become himself too, one of the great of theearth, and it appeared to him that the Comtesse do Montluisant ought to bethe instrument of a rapid fortune.

The old lady was one of those women, very numerous in the world, who makeof religion a convenient chaperone for their intrigues and their affairs ofgallantry. When they are old, and can scarcely _venture_ any longer ontheir own account, they generously place their experience and their smalltalents at another's service, and willingly assist the intrigues of others.That is called _lending the hand_, and more than once the old lady hadcountenanced, through perfectly Christian charity, the secret interviews ofsweet sheep with their tender pastor.

The deduction must not be made from this that all the devout are courtesanswhen they are young and procuresses in their ripened age.

Whatever may be said, all are not hypocritical and vicious. Vice usuallycomes in the long run, and hypocrisy, which oozes from the old arches ofthe temples, and from the antique wainscoting of the sacristies, falls atlength upon their shoulders like an unwholesome drizzling rain, but for themost part they begin with conviction and good faith.

They attend church frequently, not only because it is _good form_, not onlythrough want of occupation and through habit, but from inclination.

The melodies of the organ, the odour of incense, the singing of the choir,the meditation and silence, the flowers, the wax-tapers, the gilding, thepictures, the mysterious light which filters through the stained-glasswindows, the radiant face of the Virgin, the sweet and pale countenance ofChrist, the statues of the saints, the niches, the old pillars, the smallchapels, all this mystic poetry pleases them, everything enchants andintoxicates them, even to the sanctimonious and hypocritical face of thebeadle and the sacristan.

It is their element, their centre, their world. They attach themselves tothe old nave as sailors attach themselves to their ship.

They know all the little corners and recesses of the temple. They haveknelt at all the chapels and burnt tapers before all the saints. But thereis always one place which they have an affection for, and where they areinvariably to be found. Why? Mystery! What do they do there? Mystery again.They remain there for whole hours, motionless, dreaming, their eyes fixedon vacancy, their thoughts one knows not where, and in their hands a bookof prayers which they open from time to time as if to recall themselves toreality.

A young priest passes by. He recognizes them. He bows and smiles to themlike old acquaintances. In fact, he sees them there every day at the sameplace. Godly sheep! They look at him passing by, and, while pretending toread their psalms, they follow him with that deep, undefinable, mysteriouslook, which inspires fear.

What connection is there between their prayers and reveries, and the livelybehaviour of this red-faced Abbe?

How he must laugh, and how he must inwardly despise these women, who canfind no better employment for the day than to mutter _Paternosters_, devoidof meaning, before an image of wood or stone, or to remain in the vaguesanctimonious contemplation of a _mysterious unknown_.

Poor women! who, better led, better instructed in their duties and missionin life, would have become excellent mothers, might have been the light andjoy of some hearth which now remains deserted, and who, lost and misled bya false education and a detestable system of morality, fall into wastingmysticism, hysterical ecstasies, a contemplative and useless existence,into degrading practices and shameful superstitions, and instead of beingthe fruitful animating springs of moral and social progress, become thepassive instruments, the unfruitful _things_ of the priest, that is to saythe agents of reaction.

It is they who have caused thinkers to doubt the noble part which woman iscalled to fulfil; who have compelled Proudhon to say: "Woman is thedesolation of the just," and that other apostle of socialism, Bebel, thatshe is incapable of helping in the reconstitution of Society:

"_Slave of every prejudice, affected by every moral and physical malady,she will be the stumbling-block of progress. With her must be used, morallycertainly, perhaps physically, the peremptory reason to the slaves of theold race: The Stick_!" We are far from the divine book of Michelet, _Love_.

No, do not let us beat woman, even with a rose, as the Arab proverb says.She is a sick child, foolishly spoiled, who requires only to be cured andreformed by another education. The Comtesse was not like this. Skilful andintelligent, she knew _what talking meant_, and how to read in wise men'seyes and between the lines of letters. Therefore, she had learnt in goodtime, how to bring together two things which the profane suppose to be soopposed to one another, and which form the secret of the Temple: _Religionand pleasure_.

"And she was quite right," Veronica would have said, "for how can pleasurehurt God."

They took a light repast, and it was decided that Marcel should repair tothe Palace that very day.

--There is no time to lose, said the Comtesse. The Cure of St. Marie ismuch coveted, and we have competitors in earnest. There is firstly the AbbeMatou, who is supported by all the fraternity of the Sacred Heart; he isyoung, active, wheedling and honey-tongued. He is the man I should choosemyself, if I did not know you. He has had certainly a funny little storyformerly with some communicants, but that is passed and gone, and as, afterall, he is an intelligent priest and very Ultramontane, Monseigneur wouldhe desirous of nominating him in order to rehabilitate him in publicesteem. He is dangerous.

Now we have little Kock. He has rendered important services. But he is theson of an inn-keeper, and he has common manners. Let us pass him by. Thereis yet the _Sweet Jesus_. Do you know the sweet Jesus, Abbe Ridoux?

--Yes, it is the Abbe Simonet.

--The Abbe Simonet, said Marcel, I know him; we were together at theSeminary. Do they call him the sweet Jesus? He was a terrible lazy fellow.

--Well, he is not so among the ladies, I assure you They all are madly inlove with him. He confesses the wives of the large and small shop-keepers,and he has enough to do. The gentry used to go to the Abbe Gobin. Now hehas gone away, what will become of all the sinners of the Old-Town?Supposing they were all to fall upon that poor Simonet! It is enough tomake one shudder. Dear _Sweet Jesus_! When I see him wandering in theCathedral with his long fair hair, and his down-cast eyes, I understand theinfatuation of the women. He is nice enough to eat; yes, gentlemen, to eat.Ah, you do not know as well as we do, how religion gains by young andhandsome pastors for its interpreters, and with what rapidity the holyflock increases. It is an astonishing thing. I fear that we must strivevery hard against the _Sweet Jesus_.

--We will strive, said Ridoux.

--And we will employ every means. Go, dear Abbe, hasten to Monseigneur's,he is warned of your visit, and before entering on the struggle, it is wellto reconnoitre the ground. Go, I have good hopes that we shall have St.Marie.

Thus Marcel found himself enlisted, in spite of himself. The Cure of St.Marie was, to tell the truth, perfectly indifferent to him. That one oranother mattered to him but little. He had considered that it was perhapsindispensable that he should quit Althausen for the sake of his reputationand the tranquillity of his heart. His heart? Was it then no longerSuzanne's? More than ever: but he thought by this time that if there arereconciliations with heaven, there were none such with his maid-servant,and that to rid himself of her, he must first quit Althausen. Suzanne fromtime to time could come to Nancy, and it was much more easy and lessperilous for him to contrive interviews with her there, than in thatvillage where they were spied upon by all. Afterwards they would see....